


Ribbons

by Fadesintothewest



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dagor Dagorath, Depressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fadesintothewest/pseuds/Fadesintothewest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its the end of times and Fingon is fading. A street preacher, Fin, travels the places, the street corners many dare not tread-the haven of the homeless and addicts, the throwaways of society. But in those margins Fingon is supposed to find hope and without knowing it, hope finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Street corner preacher

**Ribbons**

 

Chapter 1: Street corner preacher

 

Fin pressed his cheek against the cold glass, watching as the streetlights flared in and out of sight. The rain fell swiftly, swept away by the noisy wipers that rhythmically took to their duty. Fin’s breath fogged up the glass. He was tired. Not just any kind of tired. He felt the wear of time, of ages on his soul. He was fading. How many street corners across this decrepit land had he occupied? How many street hustlers, how many junkies, how many nameless souls had crossed his path? And it was the street dwellers, the unseen that saw him. Others saw him too, but Fin didn’t need to reach them. They knew. He had to warn the unseen, those at the margins for in them there was perhaps salvation. Perhaps.

 

Hours earlier Fin had been standing on a street corner. It could have been any street corner of any city, in any place. But this was Baltimore and Fin had taken to this street corner and every night would stand upon his pulpit, a repurposed wood crate from a grocery store, and shout out to the endless night about the end, the Dagor Dagorath, the Final Battle. Sometimes junkies would be compelled to listen, their drug ecstasy opening some truth in their thoughts, a sliver of consciousness. Every now and then a homeless man named Stan would come and listen. Stan had seen war, was a soldier of these times, but now he was discarded. War had broken something in Stan, and he never came back from those jungles, had witnessed how Whites despised him. He was used to being despised. Stan witnessed the fires of Baltimore and been sad, angry. Nothing had changed, his people still a target, that is until Fin appeared on his street corner and Fin’s words rang true. He’d heard such certainty and truth being shouted by his captain as he lay wounded on a jungle floor across the world from where he had been born. Stan recognized that light in Fin’s eyes, knew him to be one of them angels that no one dared listen to, but Stan knew. And for the first time in a long time Stan was scared for he knew Fin’s words were true, but more than anything, he knew Fin was fading. The last hope for man had come and gone and now Stan waited for the End to come.

 

Fin had shown up on that street corner, his eyes hidden behind dark shades, wearing a long, black leather jacket, his long hair kept up in a tight bun. No one in that place at that time took the time to notice that this menacing tall figure was beautiful. Indeed, no one could look upon Fin for too long without an overwhelming feeling of dread scaring them away. Sometimes Fin’s words were in English. Other times, some strange gibberish. He was just another crazy person on the streets of Baltimore. And the cops left him alone, or at least that’s what the cops believed. Stan knew better. He’d seen how cops had tried to hustle Fin, but with a few words and catching the cop’s eyes with his strange blue ones, Fin convinced the cops to leave him alone. Stan knew conjuring when he saw it, remembered his grandmother who’d been a slave recall the strange magic that had come over with them on the boats and helped them survive in the brutality of slavery and its afterlife.

 

And then the Ford Focus had shown up and parked on the empty street. Out from the small car emerged an elder Black woman, her hair white from time, but her eyes were soft, like those of a grandmother of many, a woman who led her people through thin times and dark times. Stan watched as she went to Fin, removing her glasses to look upon the imposing figure. Fin had removed his glasses, looking down upon the slight woman. Fin smiled, the first sign of humanity Stan had seen from the street preacher. A few words were exchanged and it was then that Fin looked up at Stan and looked into his soul, recognizing him as a person, someone that others had simply stopped seeing. Fin folded his tall figure into the small car and Stan watched the car disappear into the rainy night. Fin would be back and Stan would be ready. He’d been ready since they came and took his people as slaves.

 

The old woman who drove the car didn’t dare take her eyes off the slick road ahead. Fin could see her eyes were tiring, struggling to keep her eyes focused on what the headlights revealed ahead. Fin could see beyond, into the dark street, beyond into the grim future. He was exhausted. Humanity had wasted itself and yet he had to try to keep going, one person against the insurmountable greed of those few in power that had convinced so many that the devil did not exist. The Devil did not exist, but evil did and the evil in this age was the worst kind, Fin considered, an easy evil, a seductive evil. But there were many who fought, many who were up against that evil.

 

“The afterlife of slavery,” Doris whispered, “it hurts my bones, it's buried my children.”

 

Fin raised his head from the glass, turning to look upon his long time friend, but he spoke no comforting words, uttered no hope. Fin had been around too long to know that words could offer no respite from the pain of a long story that was still unraveling.

 

“Do you think I’ll see my ancestors free? Do you think I’ll see my children free?” Doris spoke those words more forcefully. She knew the Final Battle was on the horizon but it frightened her.

 

Fin finally spoke. “I do not know the fate of your kind.” Fin rubbed his temples. The Final Battle would take many, many lives and those taken would not be given repentance as they believed. Man’s beliefs had been warped. Heaven was on earth, in those growing things, in the water that gave sustenance, in the winds that whispered life, but all that had been forgotten by many, but not all.

 

“Where are you taking me?” Fin asked, deciding he did not have the heart to speak of death. Not yet. He was dying too. A second time.

 

“To him,” Doris answered.

 

Fin froze. Him. He had been released. So long ago Fin had dreamt of this moment, but now those dreams were phantoms that haunted him. They had all been Doomed. Fin knew this and though he died he had been released and made to atone, so they told him, but Fin had rebelled and become lost within the currents of history. Fin smiled. The fallen angel story had once been something he had told as metaphor, but over time, it had been retold so that many believed. But His Doom: Darkness ever lasting until…Now that time was near. The end. To have Him back at the end of times was too much a punishment. Fin laughed.

 

Doris peered over at Fin knowing that Fin would be processing what she had shared with him, but she hadn’t expected that.

 

“Don’t worry Doris,” Fin assured her. “I’m not going crazy, not yet.”

 

“That’s reassuring,” Doris answered, her eyes back on the road.

 

“Where are we going?” Fin asked, his eyes looking ahead into the darkness.

 

“To an airstrip,” Doris replied.

 

“Will you be coming with me?”

 

“No. I’ll be staying right here. Too many babies to watch after.”

 

Fin smiled, some semblance of love and compassion escaping his grim features. “Baltimore is lucky to have you.”

 

Doris shrugged, smiling quietly to herself.

 

“Who will I be meeting?” Fin inquired, knowing that the airstrip would be private, hidden as only his People could manage.

 

“I am not sure,” Doris answered, unbothered by the strange ways of the Eldar.

 

They drove on in silence, the paved urban landscape turning to untamed earth and green. After a few hours, Doris, who was tired but unrelenting in her approach to life, pulled off onto a gravel road. There had been a strange light that had pulled them too this place. It was the way Fin’s peoples left road maps, using mental markers that only those sensitive to Eldar magic could feel.

 

“Almost there,” Doris spoke.

 

“What will you do?” Fin asked, knowing that Doris would be taken care of but curious of who her host would be.

 

Doris’ slowed the car and brought the car to a stop. She didn’t answer Fin. She had no idea herself. Doris knew Fin had seen the lights of the home even though the glamour still kept the light from her eyes. She was used to such contradictions since she had been but a child. Her family had been allies of the Elves for as long as she knew, had heard stories passed down, generation to generation. And yet their allies had been unable to stop the march of men against them. Such was the end of times.

 

Fin opened the door and stepped out, stretching his cramped body. The building was a modest farm house. Who it belonged to he did not know, but he trusted what he felt. Rounding the car, Fin came to stand next to Doris who was stretching out her aged bones. Fin waited until Doris looked up at him, her bright eyes signaling she was ready. Fin looped his fingers through Doris’ leading her past the glamour.

 

The lights appeared muted at first to Doris until she went through the veil that wrapped the home, revealing the warm, bright light spilling out from the windows. On the porch stood a tall elf, though not as tall as Fin. Doris did not recognize this elf. Neither did Fin, but from the markings on the Elf’s face, Doris knew she was one of the Refusers who had never taken the call to go over to those other lands. Words her ancestor’s sang filled her in that moment:

 

 _“I looked over Jordan and what did I see,_  
_Comin' for to carry me home!_  
_A band of angels comin' after me,_  
_Comin' for to carry me home!”_ [1]

 

Fin paused at the edge of the steps leading up to the porch, the elf standing on the porch answered the ghosts’ song that traveled with Doris: “If only your people would have been allowed Refusal.”

 

Doris sighed, her heart heavy, but she also felt her peoples’ hope filter through time to her in that moment. “Take this one to his heart’s home.” She pushed Fin up the stairs. “And give me shelter for I am tired.”

 

The elf smiled and held her hand out to Doris who gratefully accepted the help. Fin’s eyes filled with tears. Doris turned to look at him as she stood in the doorway leading into the welcoming home. “Don’t cry for me. I know something about surviving and hope.”

 

Fin let out a small cry. The capacity of love, of hope, and anger of the Second Born was born of a strength that Fin did not quite understand but he loved it nonetheless, was inspired it, and was what had kept him from fading, but even that was not enough. “I hope to see you again my friend,” Fin called out.

 

From within the house, knowing Fin’s keen hearing would pick up her words, Doris spoke, clairvoyant as ever, “We will meet again, my friend.” Doris heard her mother’s mother’s voice raise up somewhere in time and she shared those thoughts with Fin:

 

 _“…When the Sun comes back_  
_And the first quail calls_  
_Follow the Drinking Gourd,_  
_For the old man is a-waiting for to carry you to freedom_  
_If you follow the Drinking Gourd…”_ [2]

 

And it seemed Fin’s Sun was back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	2. Many Journeys

Ribbons

Chapter 2: Many Journeys

Maedhros watched the waves, whipped up by the powerful storm, crash onto the rocky beach. Rain pounded against the window, but his eyes could see the islands in the short distance and beyond the arm of the peninsula that reached back up towards the Straits to his South. He sat, facing the window, on the only chair in room. He’d been sitting there for hours, watching the waters of the Sound churn with the powers of the storm. A day earlier he had been cast out of Darkness and into this grey world and still he felt empty. His body was new, almost. He had a hand again, but there were whispers of scars here and there, a notch missing in his ear, and most of all he was born with the old pains, the old sorrows. He would smile if he could but irony was lost on Maedhros. 

Maedhros had been filled with the history of Men, watched as the world was born anew and then plunged into darkness. And yet again the few condemned humanity towards a destiny not supposed to be for all. Nations, borders, he’d seen them crumble and reform. But the avarice of men now devoured the very Mother that nurtured them. There was no turning back. Man had precipitated the Final Battle and in the fall towards that End, countless innocents were sacrificed. Too many. Maedhros had fallen on his knees and cried as the history of humanity’s story unfolded for he did not believe that a worst fate could be conjured, but it was. 

When asked where he wanted to go, Maedhros had simply asked to be alone where he could feel Endórë’s wrath and hear her pleas. If Maedhros was empty, then perhaps he could fill himself with the last breaths of the place where his People had awakened. There would be no stars in that darkness after the storm. The clouds would settle and cling low to the horizon, breathing in the dampness of the earth, saturated with rains. Maedhros was alone. It seemed the elves left in Endórë appreciated loneliness, understood Maedhros’ pain. That was a comfort but it was also a tragedy. The world was gasping, trying to hold itself together and the Elves could do nothing but wait for the End. This was Sorrow. Maedhros managed his first smile, a bitter thing. Reborn to something more terrible than the Endless night. The Valar were generous with their punishment. 

Out there in this grey world were his brothers, so he had been told. Maedhros hesitated, his body stiffening, and Fingon. Maedhros stood up abruptly knocking the wood chair over, the sound of it hitting the wood floor echoing in the empty house. Maedhros placed his hand on the window pane, allowing the coolness to remind him of what he had lost. The strange elf that had taken Maedhros to this home mentioned Fingon, or Fin as he was now called. He had mentioned to Maedhros that Fin had forged his own path, been lost to the world for a long time, but had been found again. Maedhros noticed that the elf’s face fell into sorrow when he mentioned Fin had been found again. Maedhros did not need to ask for more. His heart would have broken if it wasn’t already shattered. Maedhros had been remade but he was new renewed. Far from it. He carried more pain, more sadness. 

Maedhros looked out to the waters, wondered if Maglor had walked the shores of these waters. These waters would be to his liking: wild, grey, cold and relentless, driving away visitors from its shores. Maglor, Fingon… Maedhros sighed, allowing his face to press against the window, and now he was returned, ready to fight in the Final Battle. The Elves would meet it head on, be the front line, for they did not fear death, even if it was to be the uttermost end of things. The wick was near spent for them and they were all fading. Maedhros managed his first laugh. He’d been reborn only to find that the spirit of the Eldar was waning, flickering, its fire almost spent. 

A knock at the door startled Maedhros. He had not heard anyone approach the lonely house. Maedhros held his breath, hoping the knocking would not persist, but it did. Maedhros chided himself. He’d need to make sure to be more aware of his surroundings. Reluctantly Maedhros walked to the door. He was not afraid who or what would be on the other side, but he was hesitant. The knocking grew louder. Maedhros quickened his step if only to hear the knocking cease. Maedhros threw the door open, eliciting a gasp from his visitors. Maedhros quickly composed himself. At the door was an old woman and a child in her first years of life. Maedhros’ mouth opened but he did now know what to say. The older woman seemed to anticipate Maedhros’ mood. Offering Maedhros a warm smile, she held up a basket the contents covered over with a green cloth. The smell of freshly baked bread tickled Maedhros nose. Of course, he was hungry! Maedhros took a step back. “Forgive me, I have forgotten my courtesy.”

The old woman laughed, a deep rolling laugh. The little girl skipped into the house around Maedhros, unperturbed by his looming figure. Maedhros opened his mouth and once more could not think of what to say so the old woman filled the space for him with her gentle voice. “I was told to keep an eye on you and make sure you were taken care of, so I decided you needed to eat.” She shuffled around Maedhros, heading into the kitchen. Maedhros took a moment to gather his thoughts. The sound of furniture being moved around caught his attention. He realized that the old woman and small child had produced a table and more chairs. Remembering his courtesy, Maedhros ran to assist. 

“Where?” he asked as he helped the woman unfold the table. 

“From that closet there,” the old woman indicated with her lips.

“Of course,” Maedhros blinked. He had not explored the house, seeing only the chair in front of the window and finding it all he needed the moment he entered the house. It finally dawned on him to ask, “Where am I?”

The old woman kept to her task, but her eyes traveled to Maedhros. “You are on Lummi land.”

“Lummi?” Maedhros questioned, sorting through his newly acquired memories, more like an encyclopedic memory book of what the world was now. His mind scanned maps, peoples, territories until he found the Lummi people, Lhaq'temish, saw their history, their resistance, and their hope. “Thank you,” was all Maedhros could manage. Being remade in this place was accompanied by a deep sense of the time Maedhros had spent in death.

“You will get the hang of it,” the old woman answered, her hands on her hips, satisfied that Maedhros’ kitchen was set up enough for them to break bread. “Sit down,” she ordered Maedhros. The old woman and the little girl sat down and pulled more food from the basket. The little girl had scrambled up the counter, and taken glasses out of the cupboard, filled them with water, and set them on the table for their small feast. Maedhros sat down and a plate filled with bread and fruit was pushed in front of him. “Mary,” the old woman spoke, introducing herself, and then looking at the little girl shared, “little Mary.” 

“Thank you, Mary and little Mary,” Maedhros replied, his eyes settling on the little girl who was openly staring at Maedhros. She offered Maedhros a grin, revealing two missing bottom teeth, the new teeth breaking through the gums. Maedhros was hit by a wave of emotions, precipitated by this young girl’s innocence, her newness and her ability to live in exactly the moment that was and not before and not beyond. It overwhelmed Maedhros. His lips began to quiver, but Maedhros fought back the urge to break down. Mary did not let her eyes linger on Maedhros. Instead she buttered a slice of steaming bread and placed it on Maedhros empty plate. Thankful for the small gesture, Maedhros savored the bread, allowing his breath to calm. Maedhros felt little Mary’s eyes on him. Turning to look at her, Maedhros found he was able to study her closely, noticing her long black hair tied in a thick plait, the tone of her golden skin reminiscent of someone. And then Maedhros looked into her eyes, the bluest blue, large and alive, shimmering and vibrant. Maedhros fascination caused little Mary to bury her face in her grandmother’s arm. 

Elder Mary laughed, “People always notice her eyes, don’t expect a kid so brown to have such blue eyes. I tell Mary to say she’s got her Swedish grandparent’s eyes, isn’t that right little M?” The little girl blushed, revealing her toothless grin once more. “And what about you? Did folks always marvel at your red hair?” the elder Mary commanded the conversation once again.

“They did,” Maedhros answered, for the first time in this life a gentle smile taking hold as he remembered his youth. Looking back at little Mary, Maedhros, more sure of himself, spoke, “I had a cousin who looked something like you little Mary. Folks would marvel at his blue eyes, unusual for someone with brown skin like his.”

Little Mary said her first words to Maedhros, “Really?”

“Truly,” Maedhros spoke softly, remembering Fingon with love and peace. Mary turned to look at her grandmother, her smile breaking into the brightest of things. 

The elder woman grabbed Maedhros hand. Her hand was warm, soft, soothing, offering and reminding Maedhros of something he had once known. “We know what is coming and we will survive so be at peace here, with us.”

Maedhros was taken aback. There was much he had to learn. The vast repository of knowledge he had been filled with was incomplete. Maedhros sat back in his chair, sharing a smile with his hosts. Of course it would be incomplete. How else is one supposed to write their own story even when Destiny demands otherwise?

Mary stood up from the table. “We best be going and leave you to get ready.”

“Get ready?” Maedhros inquired.

“For your guests of course.”

“Guests?”

“They’ll be here in the evening.”

Maedhros spun around taking in the empty house around him. “But…”

“The attic and basement,” Mary indicated with her hands. “Most things are stored in there and should be fresh since they were recently stored.”

Little Mary ran and wrapped her arms around Maedhros legs. “Oh,” Maedhros breathed, stiffening afraid to move. 

Mary laughed at her granddaughter’s antics. “Little ones remind us of so many things we tend to forget.”

The little girl released her tight grip of Maedhros and ran to the door, whipping it open and running out into the rain and into the car that was parked in the small gravel driveway. Mary walked after her daughter. As she exited she turned to look at Maedhros one last time. “If you need anything we are just up the road.” Maedhros eyes looked up and saw the home in the distance and noticed the many boating craft pulled up onto the shore beyond. “No one will bother you round here,” Mary spoke quietly as she walked to her car, unbothered by the rain, knowing Maedhros would hear her. 

)()()()(

Traveling once more. Fin was used to it. This time, he was on a small private jet, one of the few in the fleet that belonged to the elves. He pressed his face to the window, the sun had not crested the horizon yet, but the light revealed mountains below. The clouds began to grow thicker and the jet shook as it headed deeper into the great storm that covered the western portion of the continent. So much for the sun, Fin thought to himself. He was the only passenger on the small plane piloted by one of the lost, a refugee from a war torn country that had managed to escape, but not before losing most everything dear to him. Fin understood the man that had offered him a tentative smile when he boarded, understood the ghosts that painted the man’s eyes with a haunting look. That man had a small purpose: helping refugees find their way to safe havens outside the arm of the laws and politics of nations that grew in fear. 

Fin shifted in his seat, releasing his hair, running his hands through it, gingerly picking out the tangles. It was not too hard a task as his silky straight her was pliable, slipping between his fingers. Fin no longer wore it as long as he once did. It fell a few inches beneath his shoulders, long enough to hold a braid, but not so long that he could weave it into the intricate designs favored by the Noldor so long ago. 

So long ago…so, so long ago

Fin pressed his face into his hands. His soul wanted to escape but he could not find the energy to fade, not just yet. And now He was returned. Fin was not so sure if he wanted to see him. Fin was not so sure he wanted to be Fingon again. He had abandoned that person long ago. The time for bravery and heroism was memory. The world Fin walked in demanded something more desperate. Fin had that in him too and so he allowed himself to walk the knife’s edge, communing with the wild things so the world came to call him mad. Fin was not mad. Truly, there was no such thing. He was one of the First Born still left in a world that was dying fast. What does one do with that? 

“What does one do with that,” Fin whispered, refusing to say His name. 

The plane ride smoothed out. The pilot exited the cockpit, leaving his duties to his co-pilot in order to inform Fin that they were delayed. “We are flying north. The storm will not let us land, but we anticipate that in an hour’s time we will be able to land. We have fuel for about 3 more hours of flight, if need be.”

Fin nodded his head. Something in the man’s eyes made Fin pause. They were grey, very old, though the man standing in front of him had seen no more than 30 years of the earth’ orbit around the sun. “What is your name?” Fin asked, slipping easily into his role as preacher, as healer, as sorcerer for men and their pain.

“Ahmad,” the man answered quietly. 

“Where was home?”

“Syria,” the man answered, his voice a whisper, “Damascus.”

“How many of your family did you lose?” Fin asked, compelled to offer some healing as only he could.

“All of them,” Ahmad answered, his voice trembling. His grey eyes did not look away from Fin. He had no reason to hide his sorrow. 

Fin saw them, Ahmad’s wife, his children: a girl and a baby boy. He saw Ahmad’s aged parents, left behind. All gone. Fin reached out and Ahmad reached out to him. They embraced. Moments like these were stolen, defiant reclamations of humanity. Their touch, sacred, filled each man with a sense of shared loss and yet there was also hope. That was all Ahmad’s doing. Fin cried into Ahmad’s shirt, taking into him all he could of Ahmad’s pain, purging the man’s deepest pains. But it was not a healing that could do away with pain, that pain would always be with Ahmad, but at least he would go forward with a bit of Fin in him, a bit of light to face a dark world and survive. And Fin took a step closer to fading. 

“Why do you do this?” Ahmad asked, knowing that the capacity of elves to heal came at a great price. 

Fin stood back, holding Ahmad’s hands in his. “Because I can. Because I can,” Fin repeated, more for himself than for Ahmad.

Ahmad closed his eyes, acknowledging Fin’s gift. “Shokran,” Ahmad whispered. There was nothing left to be said. Ahmad blessed Fin and headed back into the cockpit. Fin would bear Ahmad’s dead with him, see them when his eyes were closed, a part of the multitude he carried. Fin could do nothing else, but be like that holy figure people needed him to be: the preacher on the street corner, the seer lost in the desert, the lone man in the mountain. 

The plane started its descent into the pacific northwest of the United States, heading towards a landing strip near the Canadian border, another hidden artifact amidst the coming and going of people that were ignorant that the End of times drew near. Fin buckled himself in. Even his elf eyes could not break through the thick clouds. It wasn’t until they were close to landing that Fin could make out the scenery: a landing strip cut into a deep old growth of trees. Fin smiled. A little bit of faerie still left on middle earth. The plane shook violently but the pilot landed the small plane uneventfully, though the small landing strip meant that the plane had to come to an abrupt halt. 

Ahmad and his co-pilot came out to bid Fin good bye.

“Where to next?” Fin asked the crew.

“To Canada,” Ahmad answered. “We bring a group that is waiting for us here to safe houses in Vancouver. They are welcome there.”

Fin smiled. That was good. Fin descended the stairs of the small plane. He had nothing with him, except the long black leather jacket and dark sunglasses he wore as armor. Fin spotted the path meant for him, heard the sound of eager voices approach the plane as numbers of people, young and old, filled the plane, ready to find a place to settle, their homes long left behind. Fin walked the trail beneath the trees. The rain did not reach him under the trees, so dense was their foliage. Up ahead he saw an opening and a car. He recognized the elf that waited for him, one of the Green elves, co-keepers of these great forests along with the ancient peoples that still held their homes here. A short ride now and…

“Maitimo,” Fin whispered, his hands greeting the trees he passed along the trail. Loud thunder shook the trees. Fin gasped. Pausing, Fin removed his glasses, ran his hands through his hair, and gathered himself before getting into the car. His companion, as elves were prone to, said a silent hello, but spoke no words. Once more Fin was travelling until they meandered onto a gravel road near the coast. The car pulled up in front of an old wooden home close to the edge of small bluff. The elf smiled looking up to the house exchanging a look with Fin. Fin took a deep breath and opened the car door. His traveling was done. 

Fin stood in front of the home long after the car departed. Finding his courage, he made his way to the door but before he could knock it opened. There stood Maitimo. Memories, emotions surged within Fin, like the waters near him, he was overwhelmed, drowning.

Maitimo spoke a prayer, a single word. And it was enough to set the world right for a moment. One word was enough to save them both: “Findekáno.”


	3. Exile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is unbeta’d. Apologies for the mistakes I made, particularly in this chapter. I couldn’t quite get the tense right. The story really wanted to write itself. It's the last chapter. Not sure if I will write more, but perhaps will if folks want to read more.

**Ribbons**

 

Chapter 3: Exile

 

A tall man waited in the long line on the bridge that spanned over the river, really just a concrete culvert that separated the United States and Mexico. He stood out of place. He towered over the mass of bodies waiting to cross into the U.S., going to work, going to school, whoever they were, they were going somewhere. But this tall, pale, strange man seemed to be going no where. The young woman behind him had to gently prod him to move forward. People in this line didn’t display their impatience in ways that you and I are used to. Rather, they looked at him with pity. They recognized a lost soul when they saw one. They were from the dead city after all, but now that city was breathing again, so they were told, coming to life and people were hoping for some sense of normalcy to the Violence that had become the norm.

 

The thin man whispered words those around him could not make out, but he wouldn’t be the first, or the last, standing on that bridge, waiting to cross, that would utter nothingness. But not all he said was nonsense. Some things he said, some ways his voice traveled across time and space, was familiar despite the place he stood. It was a quiet melody, a humming really, so soft that only the young woman behind him could hear. And she was mesmerized. His song was beautiful and melancholy, much like the songs she heard her fathers sing, long after exile had claimed their voices. Why she spoke the following words to him she could not say but she was compelled to speak her heart. Perhaps he was a conjurer, one of those healers she had heard her grandmothers whisper about. Yes, maybe he was one of those souls…

 

“We too are exiles,” the young woman murmured.

 

The strange, tall man quieted, looking down at the young woman behind him. She gasped. She had not looked upon his face, not noticed its beauty, striking and terrifying. Yes, he certainly was one of those spirits she heard her elders whisper about late at night when the lights in her little town went down during the summer monsoon storms that would rage across the desert.

 

He smiled. “We walk similar paths then. Tell me, what lands claim you?”

 

“Bravos,” she answered. “Maybe you’ve heard of it, its just south of here. We were farmers once.”

 

The strange man looked in the direction of her home. She too allowed her eyes to locate the foothills of her home to the southeast. “I’ve heard of your home,” the stranger replied. “You are indeed an exile,” he continued, but his eyes now settled upon the young woman.

 

She shivered and withered under his look. But she was ready, knowing that these spirits could see deep into one’s heart, know one’s life history and the story of ancestors that had come before. So she opened her heart and mind and was not scared. She had been readied long ago. Her grandmothers carried much wisdom. Through the young woman the strange man saw the familiar story of a town razed by the drug cartels, by the military, by the police. Emptied. Homes abandoned. Bodies buried in clandestine graves along dirt roads where expansive skies met horizons that melted into pink and blue sunsets. Entire families disappeared into a black abyss where nothing would return from, nothing left, not a grave or place that one could say, _here they rest_. There was no rest for the dead, the disappeared and those forced to flee, and worse, no justice. This the tall, strange man understood in his heart of hearts remembering his fiery father and his proud brothers. Gone.

 

“The drug war a ruse,” he whispered, and she shook her head, tears streaming down her face.

 

“Yes,” she breathed, “all for oil, all for the resources under the homes where we were born, where our grandfathers and grandmothers are buried.” Indeed, if the exiles tried to return to their homes they would be killed and those already dead did not speak. And so the empty homes of the exiled, of the disappeared, of the dead, would owe back taxes and the State would claim the homes, selling them for next to nothing to figureheads that represented TransCanada, Exon Mobile, and other corporations with different names and the same faces. While the corporations couldn't clear the big cities, the small towns all along the border in that part of the Mexican territory were emptied and the corporations came in to take the oil and other resources in those soils. Business as usual. 

 

“But nobody really knows this, beyond the few news organizations that report this, nobody cares enough to find out,” she tells the strange man.

 

“Is this why you cross every day?” he asked.

 

“Yes, my family moved to the City. At least here we could survive, but others did not make it, did not survive. I go to university on the American side. I am a citizen,” she said defiantly, raising her chin, used to people thinking she did not belong.

 

“And so you cross this international bridge, travel between two nations, to study…” the tall man paused, his focus now intent on the young woman. “And yet you continue to speak up even though no one listens?” As the two spoke they shuffled forward, nearing the entrance to immigrations and customs.

 

“I do and I will,” the young woman spoke, her voice muted by the gusts of wind that whipped around them, a dry wind carrying the heat of the day.

 

“You are not alone,” the strange but beautiful man shared, placing a reassuring hand on the young woman’s shoulder. 

 

“It’s coming, the end, isn’t it?” she asked the strange man. Both knew that the people around them were listening, but they were not interrupted. This was Mexico, though they technically stood on the American side, and the people that surrounded them were intimate with stories about the end of times, having faced Death since the Europeans came. These were people wise to the whispers of land and memory. Grim faced they listened to the tall man confirm what they all knew, that they faced an end of times. For many, for most waiting to cross over into the United States, it was not the first time they faced such an end. And so in their hearts they knew that come evening they would sit down and break bread with their loved ones and speak of the strange messenger that spoke of the end once more and they would be ready.

 

The tall strange man loved them. He loved them fiercely, his adopted countrymen. He was next in line, next to pronounce the ritual of border crossing, announcing to the Border agent, “U.S. citizen”. Replying as to what his business was in the U.S, he answered, “Visiting family.” He was interrogated a bit more, so strange a person, but his passport was up to date. The border agent expected the strangest of people to come through the border. They always did and this tall, strange man was not the type of person the agent was trained to look for. The tall man was allowed entry into the United States, but before the tall man crossed the turnstile, the last barrier between here and there, the young woman called out to him, speaking for all the people: “What’s your name, I need to remember you by your name.” 

 

The man paused before he exited onto United States sidewalks, “Maglor, my name is Maglor.”

 

)()()(

 

Fin and Maedhros stood and looked upon one another until the dawn broke through the passing storm. Fin was the first to move, tentatively placing his hand on Maedhros’ chest, over his heart.The vibration of Maedhros’ beating heart against Fin’s hand was like the sounding of Valaróma—the horn of Oromë—Fin heard when he was remade. But instead of waves of regret and anger, Fin was overcome with an almost forgotten sensation: Love. Deep, deep love, the ancient kind only the Eldar could possess. A love not made for the times they now lived in. Love. Fin fell to his knees, overwhelmed with a tempest of emotions that had been locked away, nearly forgotten.

 

“Findekáno,” Maedhros soothed, though he too was crying, but he was holding onto Fingon, filling himself with the smell of his lover, something he had forgotten in the Void. Fingon’s body was shaking and all Maedhros could do was kneel next to him, wrapping his arms around him. “Here at the end of it all,” Maedhros whispered, “I have found you.”

 

Fingon quieted, Maedhros words were like a balm for his soul that seemed to be gasping for life once more. Maedhros placed a hand under Fingon’s chin, raising his face up. “And here is the hand you took from me to save me in that life.” Fingon felt Maedhros’ hand tighten around him, grip him tight and Fingon’s body shuddered, overwhelmed, for once not the healer, but the lost soul in need of healing.

 

Mary’s words echoed in Maedhros’ mind. “I have not Returned from the Void to have you back at the End of times. I Refuse this fate,” Maedhros spoke, his voice resounding clearly like a bell announcing the blessed hour. Maedhros was ready. Fingon was here and Maedhros waited for one more he was now certain was near, coming, ready to fight. Maedhros brought Fingon’s face against his, daring to close the space between them. “Listen to me Findekáno. I will not lose you again. And I will not lose another Battle. No now. Not ever. You and I. We will fight and this time, this time we will not be defeated.”

 

Fingon pressed himself closer to Maedhros, his fingers remembering the landscape of Maedhros’ skin, his hair, his smell. “But many will die.”

 

Maedhros shook his head. “Many will die, but many will survive.”

 

Fingon spoke the following words before his lips sealed a kiss much stronger than any Oath on Maedhros’ lips: “Mother, Endórë, she will survive, and when we are ready we will turn to stardust.”

 

Maedhros breathed in Fingon’s words. “To stardust,” Maedhros whispered already lost in Fingon’s body, making love, becoming one, bringing Fingon back from the edge, back to Life.

 

)()()()(

 

Ahmad welcomed his latest passenger, another of the elves, but this one was a strange one, thinner, his skin more worn, shifting it seemed, before his eyes. He was taking this elf to the same place Fin had gone. They were gathering. It was coming. The Gods and Angels were gathering and his people were ready. He prayed for humanity, prayed for their survival.

 

Ahmad left the cockpit as was his custom when he was saying goodbye to the passengers he clandestinely ferried back and forth with the aid of Eldar magic. The tall elf paused before him taking a moment to observe something he found curious in Ahmad. Ahmad smiled. Elves were unusual folk.

 

The strange elf laughed. “Findekáno, I see and hear him in you!”

 

Ahmad shared, “Fin? He helped me.”

 

“Of course he did, that fool. How much of him is left?”

 

Ahmad shook his head sadly, “Not much.”

 

“My brother will be his healer,” the tall elf spoke, though he seemed to be speaking to himself and not Ahmad. Turning his attention back to Ahmad, the elf bid the pilot farewell. “Be well Ahmad, be well.”

 

Ahmad hesitated. He did not normally pry, but he felt compelled to speak and to offer a small token for Fin. “What is your name? I must know!”

 

The elf stopped at the exit before descending the stairs that would lead him up the trail to a waiting car. “My name is Maglor or Makalaurë, which ever you like.”

 

“Maglor,” Ahmad repeated the name. It sounded like a prayer, like a Song. “Here,” Ahmad spoke quickly, afraid Maglor would turn to mist. “I know you will see Fin. Please give him this. They belonged to my wife.” Ahmad pressed the object into Maglor’s hand.

 

Maglor opened his hand revealing gold ribbons. Looking up at Ahmad, Maglor smiled, “A most kingly gift my friend, a most special gift.” And like an enchantment, Maglor departed, laughing, the sound of it a healing melody, his voice trailing him as he walked down the stairs. “Look to the Stars Ahmad,” Maglor cried out, “and find your most beloved kin watching over you with Love and hope for you shall Survive for them!”

 

Ahmad whispered, “Insha’Allah. Insha’Allah.” Faith, Ahmad understood was a larger story, something that connected him to History in a way he could not have imagined in his previous life. Closing his eyes, Ahmad remembered his wife, his children, his family and for the first time in a very long time he could see his wife dancing, gold ribbons shining in her long, black hair.

 

_**The End and the Beginning** _

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Lyrics from the Spiritual by enslaved Blacks, Swing Low Sweet Chariot  
> [2] Lyrics from the Spiritual by enslaved Blacks Follow the Drinking Gourd  
> For more see https://www.owensound.ca/live/songs-freedom


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